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He tugs me to my feet easily, as if I’m not as heavy as I am. “I don’t normally let anyone see what I’m working on.” He rubs his thumb over my palm for a few seconds before speaking again. “But for you, I’ll make an exception.”
Alden watches me as I make a quick call to Kristina on my cell phone. The reception up here isn’t great, but it’s clear enough that I’m able to tell her what she needs to know—and to hear her annoyed sigh.
“Fine,” Kristina says. “You’ll bring the paintings tomorrow. Are you sure you’re okay staying up there?”
It’s clear from her tone that she expects me to say yes, but that she’ll figure out an alternative solution if she really, truly has to.
I don’t hesitate—partially because Kristina hates hesitation and partially because I’m weirdly really okay with the change in plans. “Yes. I’m fine. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
After hanging up with Kristina, I follow Alden into his cabin and up the stairs to his lofted studio. I’m prepared to be thrilled at the process of seeing a painting in progress, but as soon as we step into the loft, my attention is immediately grabbed by an immense, finished painting on the wall.
The size of the artwork is overwhelming. Its deep blues and grays flood my sight. It’s abstract, but painted in Alden’s dense, signature impasto style. It’s like a whirlpool, like he’s somehow captured the frothing, wild ocean on the canvas.
Alden steps behind me, close enough so his broad chest is nearly pressed to my back. When I lean back toward him, he slides a hand over my hip, locking us together again. The swirling ink of his tattoos peeks out from beneath the end of his shirt sleeve, and my eyes linger there for a moment before returning to his painting.
“This is a personal painting,” he says, his voice low and serious. “The one I’ll never sell.”
“It’s gorgeous. It’s…” I trail off. His body is so strong and warm and protective behind me. “It’ssurrounding. I could get lost in it.”
“I painted it when I was going through a rough time,” he tells me. “It was before I moved out here, before I sold a single painting. I felt so hopeless and depressed. It felt like I was going to have to give up my dream. I couldn’t see a way out of the darkness. Then I turned to this canvas. Painted my way out. It gave me something to do in my darkest moments. Something to focus on. And throughout the process, I rekindled my love of painting. Discovered my method. It saved me.”
“Alden…” I fold my hand over his where his touch is steady on my hip. “That’s so moving.”
“No one else has seen this painting,” he says. “Just you.”
I love that he isn’t scared of emotions. It’s such a turn-on, a man being able to open up like that.
“Thank you for telling me about it,” I say, looking up at him over my shoulder. “Do you still struggle with depression at all?”
His touch slides firmly, possessively, over my belly. “No. I’ve been fine for a long time now.”
I nod. “Good. I’m glad.”
Our gaze holds. There’s something deep between us—something once-in-a-lifetime, something impossible to explain.
With my back still to him, I reach up and wrap my hand around his nape, then tilt my head up in a wordless plea.
I know we shouldn’t do this, but it’s futile trying to resist. He kisses me again, and it’s just as intense and demanding as the first kiss.
The pressure of his hand on my belly sends desire roaring through me.
It’s dizzying. I feel so held by him, so surrounded. I spend so much time running around the city, caught up in the gallery, in the clients, in my friends. But the truth is, I’m lonely. Leaning against someone else feels good. No—leaning againstAldenfeels good.
I want him. And not just because he’s gorgeous. It’s also because he’s passionate about his work, and in touch with the beauty of the world, and willing to show me the most vulnerable part of himself.
He feels so right.
I wrap my hand around his wrist, where his hand is pressed to my belly. Then I guide it up to the curve of my breast. He growls into our kiss. The unspoken permission unleashes something in him, and finally he touches me the way I want him to—aggressively, possessively.
Alden runs his hand over my breast and squeezes it. The touch makes me press my thighs together as renewed need builds between my legs. I push back against his hips and feel my heart trip when the thick rod of his cock grinds against me.
Jesus, he’s big.
My thoughts fuzz to static as his thumb rolls over my nipple, teasing the hard nub. When his hand snakes down back over my belly and then keeps going, I feel like I might faint against him. But his muscular arm is pinning me close to his body, holding me in place.
His fingers pop open the button on my skirt, then slide in, easily finding the wetness waiting for him. I draw in a breath as he drags his fingers over my clit, claiming the territory as his own.
“You’re so wet for me, honey,” he murmurs, nipping at my ear. He circles his fingers over my swollen clit, and my knees start to feel like they might give out. When he slides his fingers lower and penetrates me with two thick fingers, I immediately feel faint.
